Little Moments that Would Have Changed the Story
by RozzandMaya
Summary: Have you ever wanted to dopeslap Raoul? Duh. Well what if Raoul had more of a spine too? IN WHICH MORE STUFF HAPPENS
1. The Story of Christine

Little moments that would have changed a story

Christine Daae sat in her dressing room, brushing out her hair. She was humming softly to herself. True, she was only a chorus girl, but she dreamed of being a diva. Oh how she dreamed.

"Christine." The voice seemed to wrap her whole body in it's softness and fill her soul.

She looked around her dressing room. There was no one there, "Hello?"

"Your voice is good Christine. But you need training, a friend to help you and guide you." The incorporeal voice was positively seductive.

"Are you the Angel of Music?" Christine said testily.

There was a startled pause from the voice, "Yes," he said finally with conviction, "I am your Angel of Music."

Christine found the iron curtain-rod that her hands had been unobtrusively looking for. "Ok, listen buddy. You come out of wherever you're hiding and get the bloody hell out of my dressing room or I will smash every single wall to bits and beat your brains in."

Christine distinctly heard the rustling behind the huge mirror as whoever it was left.

* * *

Raoul de Chagney pressed his ear closer to the door. He couldn't believe it. There was a man in there, definitely, how could Christine be so low?

"Are you very tired?" the man's voice was husky and full of emotion.

"Oh yeah, to-night I gave you my soul and I am dead!" Christine replied flatly, "Thanks for the help getting the part though, don't deny it, I know you pulled the strings."

"Your soul is a beautiful thing, child," the voice replied, seemingly ignorant to Christine's sarcasm, "and I thank you. No emperor ever received so fair a gift. _The angels wept tonight._"

Christine laughed dryly, "Buddy, you're the sweetest guy I've ever met."

There was a silence. Raoul was livid with Christine's brazen morals. She had let a man into her dressing room! Alone with a man! He practically dug his nails into the wood of the door.

"How are you tonight?" Christine asked

"Much better thank you," a high squeaky woman's voice replied hoarsely.

"Well good because I'd hate to be caught standing behind DOORS!" Christine wrenched the door open knocked Raoul back against the wall, "And listening at KEYHOLES!" She jerked Raoul's shirt up and pressed it against his neck. "Look, I'm not in the mood for any more mysterious people listening to me without my knowledge Raoul de Chagney. You had better knock when you come to a door." Christine gave the shirt a tightening twist to emphasize her words.

Raoul sputtered and choked. Christine rolled her eyes, let him go and slammed the door in his face.

* * *

Raoul ducked behind a tombstone as Christine turned around suspiciously. She had come to Perros to pay homage to her father's grave. She had spent the entire day shopping. Raoul was exhausted. He decided that the profession of undercover detective was not his calling. Christine knelt at the grave and laid her hand on the tombstone. She had not brought flowers.

"Well," she said softly into the night, "I guess its been a long time since I last saw you." She chuckled briefly, "I got into the Opera. I'm living my dream. I knew you'd be so happy for me."

Faintly the heavenly sound of a violin wafted over her.

"You won't believe this," she said smiling, "but I'm haunted by a wonderful poetic ghost. He's a little shy, but I named him Buddy." She scowled at the grave, "You never let me have a puppy."

The violin swelled and filled the night with clear pure sounds. The song was sad, but it was a resurrection song, a song of hope. Christine bit back tears at hearing the Resurrection of Lazarus played for her father. As if the ground would open and she would have him back. She understood that the ghost was telling her that he would give her anything within his power to give her. He would even try to bring back her father. Christine stood up. The music was too perfect.

"You're swinging your eight notes!" she yelled in the direction of the music.

The violin faltered.

"E FLAT!" Christine buried her face in her hands and ran back in the direction of her hotel.

* * *

Christine was sleeping on the couch in her dressing room between rehearsals. She rolled and tossed. She was dreaming of a voice calling her.

"Come to me Christine."

Christine put a pillow over her head to block out the sound.

"Come to me Christine."

In her dream Christine stood up and walked towards the huge mirror, her arms extended. She watched her reflection split into two and then five, and then there were a hundred Christines all walking toward the sound of the voice.

Christine woke up suddenly in the dark tunnel. An arm gripped her waist. Before she could stop herself, her instinct took over. She kicked back, impacting who knows where on the soft flesh. She flung her arms at what she could only hope was a neck, jumped and flung the surprisingly heavy weight over her. They landed, her arm securely wedged over his screaming throat.

"You have ten seconds to convince me not to kill you." She snarled.

"Christine." The voice gasped as she tightened her grip, "It's me."

Christine loosened her grip, but not all the way. " Oh, Hi Buddy. Five, Four..."

She felt his arms trying to pry her off. "Just listen to me Christine!"

"What do you want?" She pinned one of his arms against the stone floor and ground at a pressure point.

He yelped. "Uh, have dinner with me tonight?"

Christine let him go and brushed off her hands. "Sure. Just don't try to kidnap me again. That was stupid, Buddy."

"No, of course not," she heard his hands searching around the ground for something, "I was being poetic again."

"Figures, help me up."

She listened curiosity piqued as he fastened something onto his head. His hand clasped her arm and pulled her to her feet. The hand was huge and bony.

"By the way," she said as her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, "Your name isn't Buddy, is it?"

He turned to face her and she saw that his face was stark white. "No, it's Erik."

"Nice to meet you Erik." She realized that it was a mask, "Call me Chris."

* * *

Christine purposefully took a huge slurping mouthful of soup. Just to see if she could get his attention. He looked at her all right.

"Uh," Christine touched the right hand corner of her mouth, "The food is excellent. I don't suppose you have it delivered?"

"I often go out into the marketplaces to do my shopping," the mask said. The mouth, puckered and pulled in all the wrong places, lines disappearing under the imperturbable mask

Christine had purposefully been mimicking his movements. She had heard that you could gradually take over the person and pretty soon they'd be following _your_ movements. It didn't seem to be working. He hadn't made a move towards the mask. Christine went back to her soup.

"I believe your singing is improving enough for you to take on a full time position with the opera. I will see if I can arrange that."

Christine glared at him, "I'd prefer to make it on my own steam." The masked covered his entire face, only the tiny openings for the mouth and eyes. Such eyes. So blue. "I appreciate the offer, though." She decided to go for the gusto. She began rubbing her finger against her cheek.

His eyes looked puzzled even if the mask looked serene.

She continued rubbing and tried to look at him meaningfully.

"What are you doing?" he half laughed.

"You've got something on your face." Christine said calmly.

Erik froze.

Christine leaned forward, "Right…there."

Erik backed away and stood up from the table. "You will never see Erik's face."

"You will never ma ma ma," Christine mouthed, "Come on Erik. It can't be that bad. You're freaking me out you know. I can't see you or know what you're feeling." She watched the stoop of his broad shoulders as he turned around. "I'm not psychic, you know."

He spun around at me suddenly, "It is for you that I wear this mask." He sat down abruptly at a black grand piano, "Come, let us sing together."

His voice melted as he began singing the duet between Othello and Desdemona. It was such a beautiful voice, so rich and so calming. Shivers were running up and down her spine.

"Old McDonald had a farm E-I-E-I-O." Christine sang purposefully in the trichord key, just to be obnoxious.

Erik banged both hands against the piano keys. "Christine you prying Pandora, can't you understand that I cannot take my mask off."

"What, is it stapled on?"

"You wouldn't understand." His eyes darkened as his voice rose in volume. "Oh, you women are so inquisitive! Well are you satisfied! I'm a very handsome fellow under this mask, you know. A Don Juan. Look at me! Don Juan triumphant!" He stood suddenly and seized her hair in his thin hands, "Know," he shouted, while his throat throbbed and panted like a furnace, "know that I am built up of death from head to foot and that it is a corpse that loves you and adores you and will never never leave you!"

"Whoa there Buster, that's pretty strong talk." Christine pulled against his hands and tried to loosen them from her hair. She struggled for a second and then he let her go.

He was shaking now, as if he didn't realize what he had just done. His chest heaved with sobs, "Oh, Christine, I'm so sorry." He stared at his hands then collapsed to the floor and buried his head in them. The mask muffled his desperate cries.

"Did you mean what you said?" Christine asked softly. "About loving me?" A shaky grin was trembling at the corners of her mouth. "You really love me?"

Erik looked up in surprise and Christine seized him in an ecstatic hug before he could say anything.

"You're a hopeless romantic, you know." Christine whispered.

* * *

"Christine!" Raoul's harsh whisper made her jump.

"Oh, Hi Raoul" Christine raised a glass of champagne. "Are you having a good party?"

Raoul looked more than faintly ridiculous in his clown costume. "Where have you been?"

"Learning to Mambo!" Christine demonstrated a few steps, "You know that Opera Ghost fellow is quite the hand at partner dancing."

"How can you say that Christine!" Raoul moaned, "You were gone for five days! Don't tell me you were with the Opera Ghost!"

"Learning to Mambo, that's right." Christine raised her eyebrows.

"He has seduced you!"

Christine looked around conspiratorially and leaned close to Raoul's ear. "HOW DARE YOU! Why you smutty brained, chicken faced, dirt licking, sniveling son of three pigs!" she backhanded him soundly.

"My dearest! My dearest!" the words were muffled because he was holding his jaw, "I only meant…"

Christine propped her elbow on his shoulder and smiled sweetly, "Do I detect a note of jealousy?"

"You have to tell me!" Raoul was on his knees begging.

Christine stood with one hand on the statue of Apollo, leaning over the edge of the opera house. She smiled into the sunset and laughed. The crimson sky lit up her features and the wind played through her hair. She was enjoying herself beyond measure.

"Christine, you're not even listening to me!" Raoul continued, "I'm beginning to think that you love this man!"

Christine yelled out over Paris, "Oh all that I ever loved!" she laughed and hugged her arms to her chest.

"Christine!"

Christine slumped down and went overt to sit by Raoul. "Ok already. I learned to mambo and I practiced my music. That was really all there was to it."

Raoul lifted his chin haughtily, "I suppose this handsome king of the underworld has made you forget all the things I have done for you?"

Christine gave him a blank look.

"I fetched your scarf back from the ocean when we were children, remember?" Raoul was puzzled beyond his entire experience.

"Oh yes," Christine said unconvincingly, "My scarf. Right."

"This proud Adonis, your handsome prince," Raoul's eyes glistened with tears and his voice was tender, "He's stolen you from me. I talk to you and you're not here anymore."

"Oh Raoul," Christine squinted up into the sky, "He's…I can't explain it. He's different." She wound her fingers around her dress. Raoul noticed a plain gold band the fourth finger of her left hand. "I've never even seen his face. He wears a mask…. And he's so afraid that someone will see him as he is. I don't know if he will let me get close enough to love him. He says that he adores me, but he doesn't trust me beyond where he can spit."

Raoul had frozen watching the light play off the ring.

"He invited me to dinner, one night, out of the blue." Christine continued, "So we sat and talked and tried to speak to each other, and that blasted mask was between us the whole time."

The wind around the opera seemed to echo Christine's voice, "mask" it moaned sadly.

"So I asked him to take it off." Christine looked down at her fingers, "He was so frightened and desperate. I thought about snatching it away before he could stop me, but he was so afraid… I couldn't." She flung herself up to the wind and yelled again, "Why can't you trust me, Erik?"

The wind echoed again, "Erik."

"So this is what it has come to." Raoul said stiffly, haltingly, his eyes never leaving the ring. "You have sold your body and soul to a demon."

"What?"

"You wear his ring."

Christine turned the gold band around on her finger. "It's a… well, it's sort of like a trial engagement ring. He never asked me to marry him. He said that as long as I wear the ring I'd be safe at the opera." Christine arched an eyebrow in Raoul's direction, "I'm pretty sure he means that we are both considering each other seriously as a marriage partner." She frowned at the ring, "But this ring still shows that he doesn't trust me. He's trying to keep me from developing any other relationships before he feels like he's ready to ask me to marry him." She frowned at herself, "I do sound rather presumptuous, don't I."

The wind echoed, "Christine."

Christine glared at Raoul, "I don't know why in the world I'm telling you this. It's really none of your business."

"Christine," Raoul said, his knuckles white as he gripped them together, "I swear to you that I will kill this monster and save you from him. I love you more than life, Christine. Will you consent to become my wife?"

"Shame on you Raoul," Christine held up her ring finger, "I'm otherwise affiliated."

Raoul reached to kiss her and Christine knocked him out cold with a right elbow uppercut.

She stalked inside as the night closed around her. An immense night-bird that stared at Raoul with blazing eyes and seemed to cling to the string of Apollo's lyre watched her go and shook his head, laughing.

* * *

Only a few weeks later, Christine disappeared again. Raoul suddenly woke up and realized that he hadn't seen her for a day and a half. At first he panicked and rushed around the Opera shouting out her name. Then when that hadn't helped him at all, he turned to the mysterious man called the Persian who wandered the opera like most mysterious men usually wandered the opera.

The Persian had mused thoughtfully on hearing Raoul's woes and had readily agreed to help him seek out and destroy this monster the Phantom of the Opera.

Raoul detected a hint of irony in the Persian's manner though, and he was determined to keep a strict eye on him.

Raoul stalwartly walked around in the cellars of the opera with his hand held up as if to salute the master architect who had armed these corridors with the Punjab lasso.

* * *

Erik looked up from the nook in the wall from which he was trying to pickpocket Firmin Richard. The mechanical footsteps were descending in the opera triggered a bell in the back of his mind. It took a second to place the feeling, but suddenly he realized that he hadn't seen Christine for a day and a half. He left Richard to his own miserly thoughts and took off following the footsteps.

* * *

Christine looked over the dress. It had little pink flowers on it and a black belt. I never look good in pink, she thought, and she replaced the dress and headed over to the sale rack.

* * *

It was several hours before she got back to the opera house. She carried a surprising light load of packages for her excursion. She stepped in the entrance on the Rue Scribe and smashed her nose against Erik's chest.

"Christine! I was so worried," his arms scooped her up into a hug, "I've been looking for you for hours. Even that silly Viscount that you like is out looking for you."

"Uh, well, I missed you too Erik," Christine tried not to drop a box that was balanced under her arm. She hadn't realized that Erik was this strong. She was no featherweight and the packages she had were significantly heavy. Her feet dangled.

"Won't you come to my house and have dinner with me again?" Erik smiled at her through his mask.

"Sure, you could just carry me all the way there."

Erik hastily put her down. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize. I mean…"

Christine set all her packages down, threw her arms around Erik's waist, and tried to hoist him off his feet, "Nope, I guess not." She gave up and hugged him. "Sure I'll come to dinner. I bought you something."

Raoul narrowly missed being killed by a giant rat. His hand was still at the level of his eyes, but he was getting very tired. He was convinced that they were hopelessly lost.

Christine sipped her tea judiciously.

Erik squirmed in his seat, "Well, how was your day?"

"Oh I had a lovely time, I went to the best shops in Paris and spent my pay raise," Christine was milking this for all it was worth. "I got you the best gift. Maybe I should wait until Christmas to give it to you." She looked into Erik's fantastically blue eyes, "Or your birthday."

"Don't know my birthday." Erik brushed it aside, "Christmas is in eight months."

"You're very curious, aren't you." Christine smiled and reached into her largest package and drew out a box. It was narrow and thin, wrapped in gold paper with a red ribbon.

Erik took it and tested its weight. It was very light. Carefully he undid the bow. Christine couldn't help but watch as the tendons slid through his fingers in his large delicate hands. Now she was the one who was waiting in anticipation. Erik opened the box.

"A permanent marker." He said without missing a beat, "Thank you very much Christine."

Christine laughed at him. "An interesting present, no?" She took it out of the box, uncapped it and waved it before his eyes. "But Monsieur Erik, this is the thing you have hoped for and wanted all of your life!"

"Is it?" Erik said playfully.

"But yes," Christine replied. "Let me show you." Before he could shrink away, she seized his head, drew a mustache, a smile, curly eyebrows, and a goatee on Erik's mask, "Voila! A face!"

She spun around and whipped out a mirror from another package.

"And it won't wash off!" She said triumphantly, "And you'll always have this perfect face to look upon the world with. And you'll always be smiling!" Christine stared at the mask and Erik's stunned eyes for a moment, "If you want I could give you whiskers too."

Erik stared in the mirror at the comical face. All of the sudden he found himself laughing desperately and heartily.

Christine sat on the couch next to him and leaned on his shoulder, "So do you like it?"

"No!" Erik was adamant, "I've never seen anything more ridiculous." He put an arm around her shoulders, "How am I supposed to be an Opera Ghost if my face is covered in childish caricatures?"

"I don't know Erik." Christine lightly touched the mask and ran her fingertips over it. "How are you supposed to be an Opera Ghost if your face is covered in childish caricatures?" her voice was not playful now, only sad.

"But I—" Erik faltered as she realized what she meant.

Christine's fingers found the curve of the mask, where the edge blended back into the deep lustrous brown hair.

There was a incredibly loud metallic clang followed by a heavy thump and then another heavy thump.

Erik was on his feet in a moment. "What the devil!" he took a giant striding leap over in the direction of the noise. He opened a cupboard in the wall. He stared for only a moment and than laughed shortly and incredulously, "Christine, come here you've got to see this."

Christine hopped up and peered into the cupboard. It was a peep hole into another room It was an octagonal shaped with walls made of mirrors. On one end stood a tree that was reflected again and again. In the middle of the room stood the Viscount de Chagney and the Persian Daroga of Mazandran. Both men were armed with pistols. "Raoul!" she laughed in delight, "What do we do with them, Erik?"

Erik pushed up the brim of his hat and rubbed his hand across the line where the mask met his hair, "Wait?"

"And what do we do while we wait?"

Erik thought for a second, made an important decision, and went down on one knee.

* * *

"Christine!" came the shout for the hundredth time.

Christine was busy doing a very slow samba to a very sleek saxophone with a very graceful fiancée. She was busy. Even if the fiancé had curly permanent marker eyebrows and a goatee.

"Christine!" Raoul moaned. "Oh shall I ever rescue her from this monster!"

"Quiet," the Persian hissed, "You fool! He can hear our every word!"

"Good," Raoul hissed back, "Christine!"

Christine doubted if Erik heard them at all. He was staring down at her so lovingly, and so longingly. "Isn't it about time we let them out?" Both men had already exhausted their pistols on the mirrors, trying to find a way out.

"Hmm?" Erik mumbled as he dreamily traced his way through the dance steps.

"Raoul and the Persian?"

"Oh." Erik broke away from her and walked to a door in the wall. He unlocked it and opened it just in time to catch a fainting Raoul.

The Daroga of Mazandran took one look at Erik's mask and doubled over in laughter.

"Fiend!" Raoul beat weakly on Erik's chest with his fists. "Murderer!"

Erik sat Raoul up and gave him a few good claps on the back. When he turned around, Christine was already there holding a glass of brandy. Erik doused Raoul in it and turned furiously on the Persian.

"What the devil are you laughing at?" He demanded hotly.

"Your face!" the Daroga said between gasps of breath. "You really put one over him Mademoiselle Daae."

Erik's hand flew to his mask, suddenly remembering. He almost ripped it off and tossed it on the floor. Then he remembered Christine. He sat down next to Raoul, a blush creeping up his neck.

"Don't bother taking off your mask on my account," Christine said, "I like the caricature. I think it suits you."

The Persian stifled his laughter just enough for Raoul to make a loud and passionate speech.

"You know she can never love you Monster!" He began, shouting, "You cannot ask her to spend the rest of her days in these dark cellars, dead! You are of the dead and she of the living! Let her go back to the life she loves! My darling Christine!" Raoul reached out for Christine and Erik's arm shot out and pushed him back.

"Unhand me!" Raoul shouted. "Remove your sadistic mask sir, and let her choose between us!" He jumped to his feet and leaped to the other side of Christine, "Choose Christine! But first see what he hides beneath that frightful mask!"

Erik stood and turned away.

"I already have Raoul." Christine said quietly, "We all wear masks, really," she looked steadily at Erik as she said this. "Raoul you are a child. You have no understanding of these matters. Take your Persian friend and leave this place."

"You can't even ask him to remove his mask!" Raoul bit out cruelly, "You are afraid of what is underneath. Have you ever seen his face Christine? Or would you rather pretend that he is the charming prince you so blindly love?"

"I trust his judgment." Christine said simply.

Erik spun around to face her. His eyes blazed with light, "Is that why? Is it really why?"

"Of course. If you must hide yourself from me after so long you must have a significant reason that precludes any possibility of our relationship deepening beyond a certain point." Christine shook her head sadly, "I love you far too much to force you to remove your mask."

"You see Monsieur!" Raoul shouted, "You have her love under false pretences! You are a fraud and a coward!"

The Persian seized Raoul with an embarrassed look, "Would you excuse us for a moment Erik?" He dragged the struggling Viscount away and left the room. The viscount's imprecations disappeared as the door swung shut.

Erik turned away, "You know, he's right, Christine."

"Well." Christine moved and leaned her head between Erik's massive shoulder blades. "What if he is?" She wound her arms around his neck, "Do you think I care?"

"But you do care Christine," Erik's shoulders heaved with emotion, "I've heard you say that you feel like I'm so distant. That you feel like I can't trust you." He shook his head sadly, "But I'm so ugly Christine. I was born without a face. I don't want to lose you."

Christine's hands ran up the back of his head, fingers tugging gently at his hair. She stopped when she came to the tie that held the mask on. "I would rather have your distant love than lose you too Erik." She squeezed her eyes shut, "So we are at an impasse." Her fingers traced over the mask gently, "It's such a little thing, so thin. Yet it is more secure than iron." Her hands retreated from the mask and rested lightly across his chest, "You've given up the mask over your heart, and that's enough for me."

Erik's shaky hands reached up and slid the mask off his head. He held it in his hands for a moment, staring at the comical face that smiled up at him. Christine's head lay against his neck and she watched him turn the mask over and over, but she did not move. Still he noticed that her fingers trembled. "I love you for what you are Christine." He spun around quickly to face her, "This is what I am."

Christine's eyes were shut tight and her mouth was trembling. Instead of looking at his face, she flung her arms around his neck and buried her face in his chest. "Are you sure, Erik?"

Erik tilted her chin up. "Open your eyes Chris."

Instead, her hand ran up along his neck and across his bare cheek. It felt the mounds of flesh that alternately bubbled in rough callouses and sank to paper thin veins pulsing over bone. The hand ran back along his cheekbone to his ear and felt the sparse hair and knobby bones protruding where they shouldn't. Eyes still closed, Christine pulled his head forward and kissed him passionately on the lips. Erik's head swam.

"I always wanted to kiss you," Christine's eyes met his, "I never could with the mask in the way."

Erik felt so vulnerable. His mask was gone, and here Christine beheld him in all his ugliness. His face was a mass of deformity, his skin the color of rotting flesh, a great gaping pink hole where his nose should have been. And the vivid blue eyes staring out at her, so unsure, so hopeful. She smiled and looked his face over thoroughly, "You certainly are the ugliest man I ever saw." Then she kissed him again, clinging desperately to his neck and setting her mouth firmly against his.

"Oh Chris," Erik's voice whispered, so deep, so soft. "I love you so much." His voice wrapped around her hypnotically, and there was no mask to neutralize its magic.

* * *

The cathedral de Notre Dame was silent and lifeless save for one small alcove. The light of the stars poured through the stained glass windows and washed over the five figures. Three stood. Two knelt.

The Daroga of Mazenderan stood proudly, his arab features distaining the church and his hands keeping a half struggling Viscount Raoul de Chagney in check.

"She can' t mean this!" Raoul was whispering desperately.

The priest eyed him suspiciously. "Do you object, sir?"

The Persian's hand drove the small dagger harsher against Raoul's ribs

"No, of course not." Raoul tried to laugh. "Fancy that. She has my blessing."

"Then remove your hat, sir, and we shall begin," the priest intoned and watched the lovely young bride before him.

Erik did. Kneeling in all his deathly glory before the priest and next to Christine, he flung his face to heaven as if to ask forgiveness of the cathedral for profaning it with his ugliness.

The priest looked at the couple for a moment, reading the eyes of first the bride and then the groom. Smiling as he hadn't smiled in years, he repeated the vows.

* * *

Author: I think that will fix the formatting errors. Thank you thank you thank you thank you to all my reviewers! You have seriously boosted the old confidence level Hugs to every single one of you! 


	2. ok, what about Raoul

A/N: I was wandering along one day when it suddenly struck me….Life doesn't stop after happily ever after. (ok, Into the Woods might have had something to do with it.) And I got to thinking, what if Raoul actually grew up? What would it take and how would it happen?

Well here's your answer.

Disclaimer: I don't know why I bother, the Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux is in the public domain. And this is _all_ Leroux. No Carlotta. No Piangi. No Reyer. The manager's names are Firmin Richard and Andre Moncharmin. No chummy chummy between the Persian and Erik. Raoul would sooner poke an eye out with a sword than manage to defeat the Rosy Hours of Mazendran's Chief Assassin with it. I should mention, that I occasionally life a quote directly from the novel, so if anything sounds beautiful or has a touch of genius in the phrasing, it ain't me.

* * *

"But Mssr. Mifroid! You must listen to me! Christine Daae is in the greatest peril imaginable. She has fallen under the spell of the Opera Ghost and married him!"

M. Mifroid rose and looked at Raoul attentively, "I beg your pardon Monsier, but are you trying to make fun of the police? And if not, what is all this about the Opera ghost?"

Raoul shifted on his feet uncomfortably. He had waited in queue all day to get to speak with Commissioner Mifroid of the Surete. "It's a monster! An animal with a human body, like the minotaur!"

M. Mifroid leaned forward across his desk, "Mssr. Vicomte de Changey, have you been drinking?"

"No Monsieur! You insult me!"

"Indeed." M. Mifroid began pushing little stacks of paper across his desk, "I suggest that you see the Office of the Census and look for a marriage contracted between one, Mssle. Daae, and one Minotaur. Good day to you sir."

Raoul kicked the Commissioner's desk passionately, unfortunately stubbed his toe, and hobbled out.

M. Mifroid watched him leave. "Vive le Revolution!" He sighed wearily.

* * *

Christine tripped over an invisible insidious crack in the floor, dropped the pan of eggs, which rather than falling down as they should, fell _up_ to hit the ornately painted egg-tempera ceiling. She watched with a sort of brief fateful curious interest and then cracked her head against the stone floor. Egg dripped onto her from above. Damn cooking.

She watched a little hazily as Erik dashed in from the other room, quickly appraised the situation, stepped over her bruised and wounded body, and expertly wiped the egg off of the ceiling. He dig a grand job of not smearing the painting.

Christine scowled and peevishly contemplated grabbing Erik's ankle and biting it, "We are supposed to be on our honeymoon you know."

"Oh Christine have you any idea! Degas painted that ceiling for me!"

It was a beautiful ceiling. Christine frowned in her stickyness.

Erik soon finished with the ceiling and turned tenderly down to unstick Christine from the floor. "You are a pretty sight! What were you trying to cook this time?"

"Nothing at all." Christine nestled angrily into his arms, even though she knew that she was getting egg all over his suit jacket.

"Perhaps I should cook from now on."

Christine's heart sank. No matter how hard she tried, Erik always did it better, quicker, and without getting egg on the original Degas. "You're right, of course."

"Besides," Erik helped her to her feet, "These beautiful hands shouldn't be working! You must save yourself for your singing, dear!" He chuckled and squeezed her hands.

But I _want_ to work. I _want_ to be a good wife to you. Christine looked pleadingly up into his eyes. She couldn't say it though, Erik was too practical, and too perfect. A lousy Mary Poppins. And what was worse, he was always right too.

His eyes sparkled gently, "Come on, let's get you cleaned up now. You'll be late for the rehearsal."

Christine leaned on him miserably and decided that she _would_ enjoy the spa treatment. Even if the Degas was more important.

* * *

"She has married the Ghost?" Madame Giry's chins wobbled incredulously, "Are you sure of what you speak Monsieur?"

"I witnessed it myself!" Raoul paused, "You will see my signature on their marriage license!"

Mame Giry rubbed her hands over her hairy cheeks and smiled with what few teeth she had left, "Oh I am so happy for him!"

She was obviously missing the point. Raoul tried again, "But she has _married_ that monster!"

"Oh and they shall have many many children and the girls can go into the corps de ballet and the boys can sing if they have any talent. Oh but they would have great talent, coming from such parents! This is truly wonderful news Monsieur! I shall be sure to tell all of the appropriate people."

"But he's a murderer!" Raoul protested, "He murdered Joseph Buquet, and he murdered _my Brother!"_

Madame Giry seemed to contemplate this. "But the police said that Joseph Buquet committed the suicide," she crossed herself. "Is your brother dead Monsieur? I had noticed that La Sorelli has a new lover, but I merely assumed…"

Raoul shook his head. Why couldn't anyone understand? Why couldn't they see that he had to rescue Christine from the monster that had her hypnotized. He had seen the man's face! And he knew that Christine, or any other woman, would die before they consciously consigned themselves to such a horrid fate! Christine was probably trapped in his lair even now, with the hideous Ghost laughing at her terror. It was almost as if the devil had come to claim the girl's soul as the price of her beautiful voice. And if nothing else, Raoul knew he had to put a stop to it."

"Oh I'm sorry Monsieur," Madame Giry squeaked, "I forget that you are the police's chief suspect in the death of the Comte de Chagney."

Raoul knew that his face was turning purple. He didn't care. "You horrid wretched woman! Begone and do not slander my honor again! If you were a man I would challenge you to mortal combat!"

Madame Giry laughed lightly at him and hurried away muttering happily. "I must get some yarn, oh yes and teach Meg to knit. There will be little ghosts around any day! Hurry hurry, I wonder if Miss Daae will have trouble with them?"

She obviously was missing the whole point. Raoul set out to find someone who would listen to him.

* * *

Christine wondered if her slip was showing. Never before had she stopped conversations in their tracks just by walking by. Everyone was staring at her.

Maybe she had sat on wet paint or something.

Even Isidore Saak straightened up on his crutches and bowed courteously to her.

Scratch that, maybe she'd won the lottery.

"Ah Miss Daae!" Andre Moncharmin shouted across the stage welcomingly.

"Not Daae!" Richard Firmin elbowed him and hissed.

Andre looked confused, "Er—that is, Mrs. Phantom of the Opera."

Christine raised an eyebrow, "Oh so you heard?"

":Of course, we don't mean Mrs. Phantom of the Opera…er—what is his last name, by the way?" Firmin rubbed his hands together, snapped his fingers a few times, and cracked his knuckles.

This was a good question. Christine made a mental note to ask Erik about that once she got home.

"Well I'd better get on with my rehearsal, have you seen Gabriel? I'm supposed to sing that one aria with a chorus behind me." Christine spun about on one heel and distinctly thought that it was rather strange that the managers hadn't at least offered her a 'congratulations'.

"Oh Miss Daae!" Firmin scuttled along behind her, "I just wanted to discuss certain ah, financial matters, with you. Eh, Mrs. Opera Ghost."

Christine stopped, "Financial matters?"

"Er yes, it's about the Ghost's twenty thousand francs a month."

"And?" Christine said testily.

"Well, as I have calculated, you make easily ten times that, and…"

Christine raised an eyebrow.

"Well we thought that you two lovebirds might be able to live on a diva's salary alone, I've calculated that you will save 70,000 francs in taxes per year, and just think of the easier time you'll have with the bookkeeping and records—"

"Consider it protection money." Christine cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"Against what?" Firmin laughed heartily and Andre kicked him in the shin.

"You fool, he's probably been teaching her how to strangle people." Andre hissed through a pasted-on smile.

Christine pondered this a moment, then she reached out and took Andre's hand, "I think, Monsieur, that we have reached an _understanding_, you and I. I congratulate you on your excellent logical processes."

"Oh completely, Madame."

"On that note, I want you to clean up box five. There's a wine stain on the carpet, and I would hate for the ghost to have anything less than a perfectly clean box. Do I make myself clear?"

A strange grinding sound began emanating from Firmin's teeth.

"Oh completely, Madame le Fantome." Andre bowed.

Christine lavished a charming smile on the man, "Madame le Fantome, that's kinda catchy. I like it."

"The box will be ready by the next performance." Andre led her gently over to the waiting choirmaster.

Christine felt inordinately pleased with herself. Erik would probably laugh his head off when she told him.

* * *

"You idiot!"

"Firmin, not so loud, she's right over there."

"You imbecile! Now we have another Diva Prima Donna on our hands! You remember what the last one did!"

"Yes but at least Christine can _sing_." Andre pulled the raving musician away from where Christine was running over some scales. "Firmin, you are an excellent composer, but you know nothing of the finer arts of political negotiation."

"And _you_ can't even read music blast you!" Firmin ripped his sleeve out of Andre's grasp. "Do you know what will happen if we give in to her _one_ time just _one little time_? Do you have any idea how many spurious cases of laryngitis she will catch on opening nights? Have you any conception of the mortal peril we are in!"

Andre thought about this, "Wouldn't it be worse if the ghost decides to drop the chandelier on the audience again because we disobeyed his wife?"

"But he wouldn't, criminal masterminds never perform the same crime twice!"

Andre looked up at the ceiling for any other large heavy crash-able objects. There were some curtains, but they didn't look like they'd kill anyone. "I'm sure he'd think of something."

"Andre," Firmin gripped his shoulders grimly, "We must be strong, domineering, obstinate and unyielding. Do you want to be reduced to groveling at her feet?"

"But she's harmless, she hasn't broken one piece of furniture since she came."

"Well she could start any day. You never know what might push her over the edge."

Andre watched compassionately as sweat started to bead up on Firmin's forehead. The poor man was an exellent musician. He'd actually sat through an entire performance of Meyerbeer's once. That took skill and fortitude, but poor Firmin just didn't understand the fine art of negotiating with married women.

Now that Christine had married, Andre was completely in his element.

* * *

Meg Giry was wandering down the endless dark tunnels in the Opera House. It was so mysterious down here, she was sure that something wonderful and exciting would happen to her if she wandered around down here enough. Just look what happened to Christine. Meg decided that dark deserted tunnels were wonderfully romantic.

* * *

_What did I do wrong_? Raoul thought miserably, moaning and holding his head in his hands. Not only had Christine completely missed the fact that Raoul loved her desperately. After all she was the most beautiful woman around for miles, he couldn't help but love her. Raoul reasoned that one would have to be blind not to love her, and even then she had a beautiful voice, so Raoul couldn't think of a reason that anyone in the world would not love her instantly. And that monster, the Phantom of the Opera! Oh he had loved her too, that was foreseeable. But had Christine chosen such a hideous man of her own free will? Impossible! He had to be blackmailing her or holding her prisoner in some way. A fate worse than death!

Raoul dimly wondered just what it was that Christine _saw_ in that Ghost fellow anyways. She had to be terribly immature to love someone just because they lurked around in the dark and were ugly. Raoul himself had never felt the need for inadequate lighting or tortured childhoods in order for a woman to be attractive.

He consigned all the dismal facts of the whole affair to the childishness and innocence of women in general. Christine had been so easily deceived! She had married a man who had lusted after her beauty, while Raoul…well, Raoul decided that lusting after Christine's beauty was a pretty good reason to marry her. He thought some more.

After all, he could always go back to the navy ship that he had run away from in order to be near Christine at the opera. A few months in the Arctic Ocean could do wonders for a man. Give him an irresistible tan at the very least.

* * *

Meg ran her hands over the mildewed wall, feeling the cracks in the wall mystically, as if by reading them she could discern the path back to the surface. Her footsteps echoed softly in the moist dank cavern. She ran her hands down the front of her white skirt and clutched at the lace. It was comforting to have some piece of her ordinary life with her when she went exploring this deep in the opera.

She froze as she heard a moaning noise.

It was a man, or a ghost, dressed in evening clothes, and his hands were raised above his neck. But most terrible of all, he had no head!

Meg did what any sensible girl would have done. She screamed and fainted dead away.

* * *

Raoul pulled his hands out of his dark hair and looked up sharply as he heard the unearthly piercing scream wilder than the Arctic terns. A dim white object floated across the floor, performed an arabesque en pointe, wafted down to the floor and vanished against the darkness.

Raoul did what any sensible man would have done. He screamed and fainted dead away.

* * *

Erik tripped over something lumpy. The strange part about that was Erik could usually see in the dark. It was part of the Opera Ghost job description. He'd been sneaking around dark caverns for years now. The lumpy thing moaned a little.

Usually Erik would have kicked it, laughed like a maniac, and left, but this last week with Christine had put him in a good mood. A _really_ good mood. He peered down through the darkness. It was some drunk man in opera clothes. Erik prodded him a little with his foot. The man started snoring.

Erik suddenly got angry. This wasn't his job, it was the shadow's job. This poor drunk would get eaten by the rats if he laid here long enough. Erik's job was to terrorize people like this. It was the shadow's job to take them back to the habitable portions of the opera.

But oh what a wonderful week he'd had. A _really_ wonderful week.

Besides Christine would probably get mad at him if he just left this guy to his fate. Erik squatted down and gathered the lumpy and rather floppy drunk in his arms and hoisted him over his shoulder.

The drunk started drooling.

Erik carried him upstairs and deposited him in one of the dressing rooms. Then without a second glance he slipped through one of the wall panels and ran into Christine.

"Darling!"

Christine looked a little frazzled.

Erik decided it was time to give her a hug, "What have you been doing all afternoon?"

"Lugging Meg Giry upstairs. She was down in the fourth cellar just about as stoned as anyone can be." Christine tucked a strand of her hair behind her ears and wheezed a little, "I should work out more."

"That funny," Erik laughed at her, "I just pulled a drunk out of the fourth cellar. Maybe Meg was having a little tryst."

"That would probably do her good," Christine smiled, "But I doubt it, she's too shy. And too enamored with the Opera Ghost."

Erik loved the way Christine smiled at him. Even when he wasn't wearing a mask. He made a mental note to really think about the wonderful mystery that she presented. She really loved him. It made him feel very happy that he didn't leave the drunk down in the fourth cellar to die.

"I love you, darling." Erik cradled her in his arms.

"Who is that voice? Who is that in there?"

Christine blinked. "Did you say something Erik?"

"Only that I love you desperately." Erik said dreamily.

There were knocking noises on the wooden panel behind them. Erik awoke from his trance.

"You have a beautiful voice mademoiselle!" a deep but still somewhat prissy tenor said from behind the panel.

Erik turned pale.

Christine sniggered.

"Mon dieu it's Raoul." Erik hissed and started pulling Christine deeper into the passageway. "Don't laugh it's not funny."

"Are you the Spirit of my brother Phillipe? He always said that when he was dead that he would send the Fashion Designer of Fabulous to visit me." Raoul asked.

"Go on, sing to him or something." Christine snorted and clapped her hand over her mouth to stop from bursting into giggles.

"The Fashion Designer of Fabulous?" Erik yelled in the direction of the wall, "Most certainly not!"

"Fashion Designer of Fabulous, speak and I will listen! I am your humble pupil. Teach me everything you know."

And then a thought popped into Erik's head. A rather nasty little vicious thought, but it might do the fop some good. "I the Fashion Designer of Fabulous command you with this first lesson in Fabulous. Never wear a clip-on bowtie!"

"Yes master." Raoul said penitently and a little groggily. "How would you define 'clip-on'?"

Christine buried her face in his shirt and made quiet little hiccupping noises.

Erik decided that this was going to be the best week of his life.

* * *

Dear Monsieur Moncharmin,

Andre, you have done excellent work with box 5, and my husband is very pleased. I would like to take this opportunity to extend to you our humble invitation to a dinner party to be held on the 12th of this month at the De Chagney estate in Faubourg St-Germain. My husband wishes to direct your attention to some pressing matters regarding the programme of this upcoming season. He also desires to impart some valuable advice regarding the orchestral accompaniment to, in particular, _Lucrezia Borgia, _and _Vespri Siciliani._ I am sure that it will be in the opera's best interests for you to consider his suggestions.

Ever yours,

Madame le Fantome de l'Opera

* * *

Firmin slammed the dramatically inked and sealed piece of correspondence down on the desk. That backstabber Andre Moncharmin! Making deals with that cursed lead soprano again! He'd show him! He would invite himself to this exclusive dinner party! He would show that musically challenged Moncharmin that he could not usurp the managerial function of the greatest composer in all of France! Firmin firmly decided that he simply adored the orchestration to Vespri Siciliani.

* * *

"You told him that I wanted to what?"

Christine hated feeling like a schoolgirl, "Remember those quarter note-eight note sets in Lucrezia Borgia? I think they should be triplets."

Erik looked about as incredulous as a dedicated lifelong musician could look, "But that was _Mozart_! Don't you think Mozart would know whether he meant quarter-eight-eights or triplets?"

Christine had prepared for this bit of the speech, but it wasn't going too well. "Mozart was only ten when he wrote it. If he had had a few more years of practice he would have realized that the sinister nature of the Borgias demanded an even low beat."

Erik's face turned bright purple, it couldn't exactly turn red, it was always red anyway. He turned his back on her and stomped off to the kitchen.

Christine flinched, but really she figured it had gone pretty well so far. "And remember how Raoul thought that you were the Fashion Designer of Fabulous?" She walked over to a wall so she could lean against something solid. "I told Moncharmin that you'd speak to him at a dinner party at Raoul's house."

There was a loud clang from the kitchen.

"Well it's not like we could bring him here," Christine raised an eyebrow as a wineglass went rolling along the floor, "He could lead an enraged mob down here if he knew where it was. Besides, I thought you could persuade Raoul fairly easily. You're like a big brother to him now."

Erik's head shot around the doorjamb. "And just how would I manage to persuade that ridiculous teenager that I needed to use his house for a dinner party?"

Christine smiled. As of right now, whether Erik knew it or not, he had been convinced. "Well I do have an idea."

* * *

Meg Giry began screeching when the sofa started moving. Then she jumped up and began beating it about the pillows with her hastily removed ballet slipper.

The sofa started screeching too. All the pillows came tumbling off.

"Mademoiselle! If this is how you treat the nobility of France I can only say good day to you!" the Viscount Raoul de Chagny fumbled around for his top hat, tapped it on his head and rose to leave the room.

With difficulty, Meg stopped screeching. "You're Christine's lover aren't you?"

The somewhat rumpled Viscount seemed to melt, "No." he moaned dismally, "She has married the Opera Ghost!"

Meg screeched, just a little. She clapped her hands over her mouth.

"Yes," Raoul nodded dismally and collapsed onto the sofa again, "But luckily, the Fashion Designer of Fabulous has visited me and I will soon be able to regain her love."

Meg's eyes widened, "Does the Fashion Designer of Fabulous haunt the Opera too?"

Raoul shook his head, "He is the spirit of my brother Phillipe Georges Marie Comte de Chagny come to be my fashion consultant. He made me buy these shoes," Raoul looked down at his feet and wiggled his toes, "Do you think they're my color?"

Meg's eyes widened even more. "I wish _I'd_ get some spirit to come and teach me something important. Christine got the Angel of Music to teach her how to sing. You have the Fashion Designer of Fabulous to teach you how to dress." She squinted around the room, "I might like someone to teach me not to be afraid in the opera house."

Raoul unconsciously sat up straighter, "Of course, I could give you some lessons."

"Oh _could_ you?"

Raoul smiled handsomely, "The Fashion Designer of Fabulous has commanded me to hold a fashion show and soiree in my house on Friday. I'd be happy to have you as my honored guest."

Meg turned a very bright unbecoming pink. "Oh yes! I'd like that very much!"

"You won't ever be scared of the opera again!"

"Oh yes!"

"And we can eat those little cream filled pastry things!"

Meg began squealing.

"And I'll introduce you to my sisters, I'm sure they'll like you."

Meg was so happy that she gave him a big sloppy kiss.

* * *

Author's Announcement: this will be continued. 


	3. Rahhhhouuuuullll

A/N: There have been accusations of Raoul bashing. I am pleased to admit that they are all perfectly true. However, since one cannot remain an AWOL teenage impressed seaman living on your brother's money and at your sisters' every whim forever, in this particular chapter of the story, which is hereby entitled 'Raoul,' Mssr. De Changey will become the most dashing handsome swordfighting hero ever to cross the silver screen. And it's all a matter of pronounciation. 'Rahouuuul' instead of 'Rowl'.

It has also come to my attention that some of my reviewers have amazing things to say:

RE: tritones. You're right of course, I forgot what they were called. Behold the jazz musician. What I meant was that if Erik was singing in 'C' then Christine would start her e-i-e-i-o on F# and continue from there. Voila! West Side Story!

RE: LUCRIAZA BORGIA wasn't written by Mozart; It's by Donizetti. Holy crap you knew this off the top of your head? (stares in wonderement and awe) I suppose I should fix the mistake. Sorry about that, I just grabbed Leroux's novel and picked the first two names I saw.Behold the jazz musician.

NOTICE: In following chapter(s) I shall be repeatedly ignoring the linear properties of time, the real names of Raoul's sisters, and probably just about everything else. Be prepared for a stretch. Maybe the best thing to do would be to visualize a world where everything exists at once and most of the major fictional heros are out there somwhere. ALSO it is very important for you to understand that NO HABLO ESPANOL and there shall be some Espanol in fic. If you don't understand it, fine, neither do I. If you do. PLEASE correct my grammar/spelling/delusions of grandeur!

* * *

Raoul looked at the curtains and wondered if they should have been mauve after all. He was quite proud of the avant garde furniture, but the chartreuse curtains seemed to lend an air of brightness to the room that the mauve would have warmed significantly. Maybe he should have had both colors together. Raoul snatched a champagne flute off of one of the nearby waiter's trays.

All of the sudden Meg was clinging to one of his arms, "Can you sense him Raoul? He's here!"

Raoul coughed over a mouthful of fizz, "Who?"

"The Phantom of the Opera!"

Raoul laughed, had his diaphragm decide that was not a good idea, and came down with the hiccups. "That's ridiculous hic."

Meg slapped his back encouragingly. "Just keep your hand at the level of your eyes. That's what mama always says. Then you're safe from his Punjab lasso." Meg's wide eyes crinkled up a little, "Do _you_ know what a Punjab lasso is?"

Raoul thought about trying to explain, but he couldn't decide if it was a noose, a lariat, or a little rope with two knots in it that would crush your windpipe when wound together with a stick.

Meg shivered and clung tighter to Raoul's arm. "Ooo I'm frightened of him."

"Have you actually seen him here?" Raoul looked around. There was a painter who was composing a still life out of miniature figurines on the piano lid, and there was a man with two brightly feathered mademoiselles on each arm who were each demanding that he kiss them, but other than that, there weren't any people that Raoul would consider 'Phantom of the Opera-like'.

Meg was looking wildly up at the ceiling.

"Oh bother it." Raoul said as he dropped his champagne flute on the carefully aged whitewashed floor. "Well come on Meg, I want you to meet the Fashion Designer of Fabulous. This whole party is his inspiration."

Meg arched an eyebrow, "Oh come on, you don't believe in the Fashion Designer of Fabulous."

"Well you believe in the Phantom of the Opera."

"Yes, but he's _real_."

Raoul was getting uncomfortably hurt by this assertion that his guardian angel was a figment of his imagination. He tried to push Meg off his arm, but she was uncommonly sticky today.

"No don't make me go." Meg said, "I want to meet your Fashion Designer of Fabulous."

Raoul looked at her doubtfully.

"Besides, I love the curtains. I think that limey pukey sort of green really makes everyone's skin look cadaverous and Pre-Raphaelite."

Raoul's breath caught in his throat, "Really? Pre-Raphaelite?" He smiled warmly at Meg and decided that after all, she was an uncommonly brilliant woman.

"I love it." Meg announced.

"It's called chartreuse." Raoul offered her his arm properly and purposed to give her a tour of the dyed yak-skin chairs.

* * *

"Ah Madame Daae."

Christine flinched and spun around into the gently waltzing arms of Andre Moncharmin. How he could waltz to this bizarre musical quartet, she didn't know. But she did her best not to step on his toes.

"Monsieur Moncharmin," she said in her best alto-diva voice, "It is not Daae anymore. I am Madame le Fantome de l'Opera."

"My apologies," Moncharmin said in mock mortification, "I was under the impression that the Madame had some musical matters of grave urgency to discuss with me."

"Ah," Christine tried to smile charmingly, she knew she'd need all of the help she could get. "Oh but it is just a trifle."

"But to such a belle Madame," Andre kissed one of her hands, "her every wish must become my command."

"You sure?"

"For such a fair lady, anything."

"Really? Are you sure?"

Moncharmin gave one of his waxed mustache ends a twirl, "Oh but speak to me Madame. What is troubling you?"

Christine swallowed and tried to look confident, "I wish you to found a National Academy of Music in the unused offices on the third level of the Opera. You will search all of France for promising musicians, give them a stipend so they can further their musical studies, bring them to Paris, and encourage them to make a professional career with their art. In this way, the cultural level of France will increase and the fine young musicians of France may be trained personally by my husband."

Moncharmin was all smiles, "Why of course Madame! I should be delighted to comply. I could accomplish your desire at a cost to the opera of only five million francs."

"FIVE MILLION FRANCS!"

Moncharmin cringed.

Christine looked around and saw Firmin Richard running towards them holding a very sharp looking hors d'ourve. He was bellowing.

Moncharmin smiled suavely, "Isn't it a trifle warm in here? I believe we could speak more freely on the balcony."

* * *

Erik was hiding under the piano and having a miserable time. And to boot, it looked like Christine had the hots for Andre Moncharmin. Erik sighed sadly. After that narrow escape with the Raoul incident, he had understood that Christine would be a difficult woman to keep true. But Erik was quite content to be loved at all, even if it was just a little. Any piece of Chistine's heart was precious beyond worlds to him.

If only she wasn't so caught up in music and art and literature.

They could be at home under the Opera House if Christine didn't feel the need to micromanage the next season's productions.

Every ballerina, every member of the orchestra had to be in exact perfect union with her musical specifications. And it was not that those specifications were wrong per se, he had taught them to her, but Erik felt that Christine should possibly learn to be content with imperfection in other people. After all, no one was perfect.

Except Christine.

Erik leaned his cheek against his hand for a while and fiddled with the fringe on the piano cover. It was red and it sparkled in the light.

Erik was just about to make a mental comparison with the charming hue of Christine's lips when an affront to nature sounded loudly from across the room.

There it went again, some horrible cross between a piccolo and a foghorn. Erik cautiously pulled the fringe aside just enough to let a sliver of one eye see out across the room.

"Listen listen everybody." A voice was yelling over the din.

Gradually the room fell silent.

It was Raoul, the little twit.

"I wanted to thank you all for coming to my party." Raoul smiled and flashed his white teeth charmingly, "I would especially like to thank all of the wonderful artistes that have deigned to present their creative genius in my humble home." There was gentle applause.

So he had actually learned something! Erik perked up and leaned a little into the fringe. Raoul had actually used the word 'deigned' and 'artiste' in the same sentence! The lessons had to be doing _some_ good. Maybe the boy wasn't as hopeless as he seemed.

"And now, Madames et Monsieurs," Raoul paused and took a dramatic breath, "The moment you have all been waiting for!"

Good showmanship, Erik thought, maybe he could get Raoul a part in one of the pantomime roles next season. Maybe as a magician. He certainly looked like he was about to produce a rabbit out of a cloud of purple smoke.

"The reason that we have been given this little fellowship today," Raoul raised his arms pleadingly toward the heavens, "The Fashion Designer of Fabulous!"

There was a puzzled silence.

"Speak to us O Fashion Designer of Fabulous!" Raoul's voice choked with yearning and emotion, "Speak so that we may learn the ways of the light."

Erik took all of it back. Raoul was a fop. Fops didn't change.

"Speak fair angel!" Raoul cried again, this time looking around a little nervously at the skeptical audience.

Erik wouldn't have, if that one radish of a man hadn't burst out into unconcealed laughter.

"Raoul De Chagney." Erik threw his voice high up into the ceiling and let in some resonance overtones so that the walls and furniture would shake.

Raoul gasped in relief and ecstasy. "Speak." He whispered, letting his arms fall to his side and closing his eyes.

"There is one among those here who knows not how to pomade the hair." Erik said, trying to keep his voice steady, godlike, and above all out of Christine's range of hearing.

"Yes Fashion Designer of Fabulous."

Erik watched as the radish man began to squirm in anticipated discomfort.

"Take him outside." Erik said, "And wash the grease out of his hair."

"Yes my angel." Raoul slowly raised his eyes and began looking around the room expertly, "But do you not have an inside fashion tip for us today?"

Oh the possibilities were endless. Sheared hair dyed green. Socks with individual toes. Argyle. Anything Erik said would no doubt become the latest and most prized fashion in Paris. Erik could hear the guests hold their breath, straining to hear every word.

An elbow dug gently into his ribs. "Pink," Christine whispered gaily, "I hate pink."

Erik almost lost his concentration. But he didn't. He never did. "Raoul De Chagney I will give to you this one revelation. It is this: that the fragile delicate pink of a—"

"Snake Sripper from the Moulin Rouge."

Erik gave Christine a shocked look. "The vivid neon pink of a Dancer of the Can-Can shall become the haute couture color of the season."

The entire room burst into applause and gasps of admiration.

Erik turned to Christine and raised an eyebrow.

Christine turned a beautiful shade of pale delicate pink. "Mme. Giry used to work at the Moulin Rouge."

"Have you ever been there?"

"No, but—"

"Then kindly keep silent about matters of which you know nothing."

Christine's blush disappeared and was replaced by a dark glare, "Well have _you_ ever been there?"

Erik thought that it was time to change the subject. "Why are you here with me when you should be accomplishing your grand scheme regarding next season's opera?"

"You _haven't_ and I know you haven't." Christine didn't even blink. "No use playing worldly man about town with me, Mr. Phantom of the Cellars."

Erik looked at her for a while, deciding whether to become angry or to awknowledge that she looked delightfully appealing sprawled across the floor like that.

"Besides." Christine said, "I'm finished with Andre. I'd rather be with you, and you know that too."

Erik let his glare soften just a little, to see if she'd speak more, in that wonderfully familiar soft tone. It was just like they had been married for years instead of weeks.

"Don't make me plead now," Christine inched closer across the carped and propped her chin up on Erik's leg. "Let's go home. I'm hungry and it's certainly more comfortable at home than under a piano."

* * *

"Andre."

The words echoed like a death knell. Andre flinched and jerked his hand off of the small of the young ballerina's back. "Off then now," he whispered and sent her through one of the Phantom of the Opera's trapdoors.

Firmin rounded the corner just in time to see her little pink tutu disappear. "Andre Moncharmin I can not abide by this any longer!"

Andre tried to look innocent, "What, dear Firmin?"

"You, Monsieur are a dandy, a moron, and a lecher and I shall stand for no more of it in _my_ opera house!" Firmin brushed by Andre and made for his desk. He began tossing papers around.

"Look here Firmin—"

"I shall hear none of it, you see! None of it!" Firmin shouted suddenly. "You, sir are no more than a pauper living on borrowed time!"

Andre thought it best to remain silent.

"Look at these figures! We did not even come close to breaking even last year. Where are all those society patrons that _you_ are supposed to be acquiring? Hm? You sir are not doing your job, and I should have you fired if I had enough funds for a lawyer." He twisted his thumbs together in pique.

Andre thought that perhaps this wasn't the best time to mention Christine's demand for five million francs and a permanent staff position for the Opera Ghost.

"No Andre," Firmin pushed the papers petulantly away and stalked over to the window. He clasped his hands firmly behind his back. "I will not let this Opera House be bankrupt. Which is why we must declare war on the Opera Ghost once again."

"What's his twenty thousand francs a month to us? It's not all that much considering what we pay his wife." Andre pointed out.

"Ah but it's not the money." Firmin turned toward Andre with a sickly smile on his face that made the bones creak. "No, he is unquestionably going to consider our next move an undeniable act of war. Oh Andre," Firmin chuckled. "We must be ready for him. Smoke him out of the Opera, drive him into the open where we can be assured that he cannot harm us, then we will be free to produce _profitable_ performances with panache, precedence and principle."

Andre wondered if he'd written his little speech himself or had hired one of those hacks from L'Epoque. It would do no good to naysay such determination from Firmin thought. He asked the inevitable. "What are we going to do then?"

Firmin straightened his back, "We shall create a spectacle such as the world has never known." He said quietly.

Andre had never heard him speak like that. He felt a sudden thankfulness that he was not the Opera Ghost.

Firmin pulled a newspaper clipping out of his waistcoat. "Here Andre, take a look at _that_."

Andre was thoroughly enchanted. Yessssss Sir. Yessssss Sir.

* * *

I know I promised to post it all at once. However due to a plot twist involving vegemite, it is not quite all _finished_. So I took the scissors and cut it up into chapters of widely varying lengths which shall be posted, hopefully every Wed. until this particular episode is finished.

Forgive the next two chapters while the plot thickens.


	4. The sordid history of the De Chagneys

It has come to my attention that there is a ridiculous ratio of hits to reviews on this fic. Sad. Shant beg for reviews, but might grovel. I really need reviews because entire plot is not precisely worked out yet. Would be good to get ideas so feel free to give. For the .03 percent who actually have reviewed this fic SPECIAL THANKS. And to mrs. malfoy () who alone out of a legion of hits reviewed this, my hearfelt appreciation. (/P) 

"So," Raoul leaned a little closer to Meg so he could see her and the fuzziness would go away. "What do you see in your future?"

Meg sprawled a leg across the yak-hide chair and pointed her ballet-slippered foot. "Well the Opera Ghost told my mother that I would be Empress of the World one day."

Raoul laughed and accidentally snorted up his nose.

"And," Meg laughed with him, "Since I don't even think there _is_ an Emperor of the World, I suppose I'll dance for a while and become a ballet mistress, maybe a box keeper like my mother."

"I'll drink to that." Raoul raised an almost empty wineglass. Cheap wine too. Much better than the stuff that Philippe used to shove down his throat.

Meg nodded and took a swig out of her bottle. "And you?"

"Well I have to be a Count. That's part of being an aristocrat. And the other part is that I can do whatever I want because I can afford it, so I really don't need to work or study anything."

"Don't you want a wife and children?"

"Oh I _have_ to get married and have heirs. The De Chagney name must go on!" Raoul raised his fist and gave a half-hearted cheer. Once he thought about it though, it all seemed rather dull and pointless. He could have anything. He had to continue the family line. That was it. Nothing else in life. "Maybe if I studied really hard, I could become a ballerina like you."

Meg burst into giggles, "A danseur, you mean!"

Raoul rolled his eyes. "Someone who the Opera Ghost can order about. I'd like someone to prophesy that I'd marry the Empress of the World one day. It would give me something to look forward to."

Meg might have smiled shyly and fluttered her eyes.

Or Raoul could have passed out momentarily from being sufficiently snogged.

"I like you Meg." Raoul said decisively, "You're not as talented or as pretty as Christine was, but I like you and you have a good heart."

Meg looked a little confused, but Raoul wasn't going to let that stop him.

"You should meet my family sometime, I'm sure they'll like you too." Raoul leaned a little closer and the fuzziness once again cleared. Or maybe Meg had begun moving away. "What do you say to dinner?"

"The Ghost would never allow it!" Meg's voice was strained and hushed. "He says that the dancers must not eat out of the Opera house. The food is too rich."

"Oh blast it all!" Raoul couldn't believe this. Was his life doomed to follow the same pattern over and over? "You're not getting private dancing lessons from this Ghost now are you? He's not going to star you in the next production that La Sorelli cannot be bothered to dance in, are you?"

Meg looked uncomfortable. "Well…"

"Would it help if I told you he wasn't a ghost at all and that he was only a man?" Raoul threw up his hands and sloshed back against his chair, "That I signed his marriage certificate to Christine?"

Meg raised an eyebrow and looked at Raoul askance.

"And his name is Erik. None of this Opera Ghost business, too dramatic, just plain Erik and no last name?" Raoul couldn't believe this.

Apparently, neither could Meg.

"I don't believe you." Meg said. "You could not have seen the ghost because he has a skull death's head for a head and sometimes it is on fire. No mortal man could be like that."

"Well toots you haven't seen how ugly Erik actually is."

"Raoul you're not thinking clearly. Perhaps I should go now before you say something that _he_ will be angry at." Meg's soft brown eyes were filling up with tears. "He holds our lives in his power, and I will not see you ruin his temper and my career as a dancer." She got up and dropped the wine bottle onto the floor. The liquid sloshed out for a while, then lay still.

Raoul watched her leave. At least, he watched her get fuzzier and fuzzier until he heard a door slam. Poor girl, she was just as duped as Christine was. Duped by Erik the Noseless of Nowhere and Nobody. Raoul prayed silently to the Fashion Designer of Fabulous to strengthen his willpower and fortitude. He would have to have words with Erik. And soon. He didn't want any more beautiful young damsels ignoring him for a voice in the cellar. It was hilarious actually. The most unattractive guy in all of Paris, the most evil tempered, high strung, mentally imbalanced guy Raoul could think of…and he could have had his own personal harem if he'd wanted to. Drat you Erik, Raoul took a swig out of his glass and hoped that his cursing hadn't violated the Fashion Designer of Fabulous' strict limitations imposed on the use of invective. Maybe the Fashion Designer of Fabulous would forgive him, seeing that it was Erik, Angel of Music and Phantom of the Opera.

Stupid titles, thought Raoul as he fell into his wineglass and began swimming.

Christine closed the heavy fortified door behind her and leaned against it with a sigh. It was a relief to breathe again. No more worrying about that staccato passage in La Juive until tomorrow.

"Erik?" She called as she peeled her gloves off and tossed them down by the coat rack. She paused and listened for him a little.

Not a sound. He was probably still upstairs overseeing the scene painters. Blast that man and his eye for art and practically nothing else.

Oh well, Christine flopped down on one of the brocade couches and kicked off her boots. At least ballet rehersal didn't begin for another three weeks. Doubtless Erik would want to oversee every aspect of that as well. Christine wouldn't complain about scene painters when lithe young ballerinas were on their way. Why jump the gun? Panic when you need to girl.

One day Erik would actually wake up out of his dreamy innocence and start looking around. And then he'd be like every other man alive. Christine would have to keep him hers, same as any other woman. It was kinda depressing.

There were some strange thumping noises from some interminable end of the house. Christine ignored them and got up and searched the cookie jars in the kitchen. Erik's large and sumptuous collection of six cookie jars were full of strange things. Like fish. And bits of string. Just like a little boy's pockets. No cookies though. Christine settled on a glass of milk and went back to the living room.

The thumping noises were still there.

Christine stared into the unlit fireplace and imagined a story about a lonely ghost who went thumping around a house to get someone to notice him. Then she took a nap.

The thumping noises were weaker when she woke up.

She started to her feet, "Erik?" It was a bad move because her vision faded out and she got a terrific headache. Also one of her legs had fallen asleep. She tried to collapse back on the couch without causing herself any more pain than necessary. "Erik? Are you home dear?"

The thumping noises stopped, "Christine?"

Oh great. He had started a construction project. Probably a miniature scaffold for his collection. Maybe he'd decided to fix the doorjamb to the bathroom.

Christine got up and limped toward the voice, rubbing her eyes and forehead. "What do you want for dinner Erik, I didn't do to well with the pot roast that you bought this aftern—"

Her hand was on a doorknob and turning it and all of the sudden she was creaking the door open. This shouldn't have been surprising, but how could Erik have possibly gotten himself locked in the torture chamber?

The answer was apparent when an almost completely naked Raoul de Chagney fell out and sprawled across the carpeting. His back was bright red and blistered. His hair was sopping wet. "Water." He gasped.

Christine jumped back, bounced a bit on her bad leg on the way to the kitchen, and managed to return with a large soup pan worth of cold water. She wished she knew where Erik kept his fantastic medicinal herbs. Not that she'd know which ones to use on Raoul's apparently third degree sunburn.

Raoul gulped down the water. Christine pinched the skin on his arm. It sprung right back into place so he couldn't have been _that_ dehydrated.

Raoul's eyes fluttered open, "Christine?"

Christine nodded and held a finger to his lips. Then she grabbed him under the arms and hauled him through the living room and onto the cool kitchen tile. "Wow Raoul, you sure can make an entrance. You could have knocked on the door, you know."

Raoul flinched when she lay his back against the tile. She went and grabbed a couple pillows off the couch for his head.

"Come on drink some more water." Christine held a cup to his lips. "Did you actually do this on _purpose_?"

"I came to see Erik," Raoul sputtered, dribbling water down his chin.

"He usually works until about six."

"Oh." Raoul looked disappointed. "Is it almost six?"

"Four thirty."

"Oh."

Christine shrugged. "Here's a bucket of water. I'll go look for something to help the burn."

"You could spread me with butter." Raoul suggested.

Christine turned away and didn't acknowledge the statement. Raoul spread with butter. What would Erik say to _that?_ Christine didn't want to find out. Raoul here at all would probably send Erik searching for his maniacal laugh and several barrels of gunpowder. Erik had problems like that.

But then Raoul could be, well not exactly dying, and not in all that much pain either…but it was the principle of the thing.

Christine stood up and started rummaging through the cabinets. The kitchen was not a normal kitchen. It was Erik's kitchen. There was a difference. Erik's kitchen wore a white mask and lurked about in the dark with a piece of catgut ready to strangle you. Christine opened a door and cringed. No need, it was only a mop. A life-size Christine-replica mop with real hair and glass eyes.

Christine closed the door again. Maybe the drawers would be better. She really didn't even know what she was looking for. Something about cactus plants and juice, but surely Erik wouldn't have any of _that_ exotic stuff around. There wasn't a desert or a cactus within a thousand miles of Paris.

Ah but Christine had underestimated the breadth of Erik's spice rack. The spice rack that had the letters of Christine's name scattered all over in little gold pieces and welded onto the cast iron. An expensive honeymoon present, but Erik was never one to skimp. There was the little bottle of the stuff. Aloe Vera, or some other Latin scientific nonsense. The bottle was cool the touch even though it had been sitting out.

Christine uncapped it and took a whiff. Didn't really smell like anything.

She walked back to Raoul and dumped some on her fingers. He shrieked as she daubed it on one of the blisters. Then he started laughing hysterically.

Men.

"Ouch ouch ouch!" Raoul giggled. "What is that stuff? It's all sticky."

"It's from the New World. They make it from cactus."

"Madre de Dios, Estados Unidos de Mexico? Como lo sospechaba. Estoy cerca de la muerte."

Christine had never heard Raoul burble like that before. But there was indeed the distinct smell of brandy about him.

"It's not tequila is it?" Raoul began moaning in agony. You're not covering me in _pulque_? O Santa Maria, te ruego el favor de…Christine, just call a priest."

"You have a sunburn and you're drunk. Now stop squirming. Erik will kill me. I have to get you out of here before six."

"But I came here to talk to Erik."

Christine rocked back on her heels, "Why?"

"I want to tell him to keep away from my girl. He's already got a wife the rata de al cantarilla sin dientes revestido en polyester!"

Christine didn't like the sound of that. Maybe she _had_ better call a priest.

Raoul's face turned a nasty brownish red and he propped himself up on one elbow. "Ahora sus dias de semental un pollo han acabado! Su cerebro es como un frijol bayo!"

"Raoul de Chagney if you don't shut up this minute I'll throw you into the lake!" Christine hollered, "Now if you don't get a grip and stop raving like a lunatic I'll call the police and have them lock you away. Just think slowly and speak in _French_!" What had she gotten herself into? What would Erik say if Raoul murdered her in a fit of insanity?

Fortunately, Raoul didn't look all that insane. He just was shivering on her kitchen floor looking sticky and miserable.

Christine sighed. It was going to be a long day.

...

It was eight o'clock in the evening. Christine was miserable. Every sound made her flinch. Erik would be home any minute.

Raoul snuggled closer into a granny-square blanket that Christine had knitted for Erik's last birthday. He had insisted that Christine light a fire.

Christine hadn't had the heart to resist, poor miserable boy. After all it was Erik's fault for building a torture chamber in the first place. What kind of person puts a torture chamber in their house for their personal entertainment? Aside from Inquisitors and Chinese Emperors and Erik.

"You know that stuff worked great," Raoul said quietly, rubbing his stubbly cheek on the couch. "I have a cousin who lives in El Republic del California."

Christine tried to make her fingers loosen their grip on the arms of Erik's favorite mahogany chair.

"I'm sorry for calling Erik all those names before." Raoul whispered, "You were right, I was drunk."

"I thought you were just raving. That actually meant something?"

Raoul nodded a little.

"What?" Christine snapped.

"I said that he was a polyester wearing toothless sewer rat among other things."

Christine sighed. "You speak another language?"

"And I said that he'd never inseminate a chicken again." Raoul squirmed into a half sitting position, "I used to live with my cousin before Phillipe brought me here to Paris. I learned Spanish before I learned French. Can't you tell by my accent?"

"You said he'd never _what?_"

"Those were the good old days. We lived in una hacienda en la vega un poco sur de ciudad Los Angeles de California—"

"Raoul, you're doing it again."

"Sorry." Raoul pulled the soft blanket higher around his shoulders and just stared into the fire. "Lo siento." He murmured.

"You miss it."

"How could you tell."

"Why did you leave?"

"Philippe. I went to my aunt and uncle when my father died so Philippe could concentrate on his career and finding husbands for my sisters." Raoul spat the words out. "Then he got the bug to be a 'family' again. Didn't want me halfway across the world. Dragged me away from my real family and my real brother, even if he was only a cousin."

Christine smiled with one corner of her mouth, but it wasn't a happy smile, "What was his name?"

"Diego. We were best friends." Raoul let his head fall back against the couch, "We used to ride horses and practice our swordfighting together and play with snake-hide whips. Fight curs in the street and run around barefoot through the sandy grass. Diego had such dreams." Raoul's face creased, "He was so _brave_. Always charging in and leaving me to tag along. He was a year older."

Christine watched the shadows dance around the room, "I never knew that about you Raoul."

"The words just come back to me when I don't even try. Philippe thought my accent got worse when he let me speak Spanish so he told me not to. I thought I had forgotten it."

Christine caught her breath and blinked her eyes several times. "I'm sorry."

"No." Raoul smiled tenderly up at the ceiling, "Philippe was the finest man that ever lived. He showed me how to live and die. I try so hard to have his courage and capability, but somehow I can't. It was all him. I loved him very much."

"I'm sure you did." Christine had never asked Erik what had happened with Philippe. She hadn't wanted to know why he was found on the banks of the lake. She had no evidence at all that it was Erik's fault. But why did she feel so guilty?

"Is it six yet?"

Christine stiffened, "It's eight."

Raoul took a deep shuddering breath and stood up. "I'll call again tomorrow then." He walked away from the fire and back toward the electric lights of the kitchen. The glow of the fire seemed to go with him.

Christine shook her head and looked again just to make sure she wasn't seeing things. Raoul had managed to turn from fashionable French paleness to a very unfashionable shade of brown. It looked good on him though. Gave him character. He didn't look like so much of a dilettante fashionista now. He looked older.

Maybe it was just listening to his story.

Christine had heard that story before. Rejection, exile and servitude. It was an old story. Only Erik had had a reason that he had been shunned. Raoul had just been an inconvenience. And while Erik had rejected his tormentors in turn, Raoul idolized his as the best man who ever lived.

And Raoul had the fortitude to live on like everything had been normal.

It was like Christine had never seen him before.

"Hate to do this, but do you have anything to eat?" Raoul pulled his blue jacket on, "I'm starved."

"There's a charred lump of ham in the oven." Christine grumbled.

Raoul bent over and peered inside the oven, "Looks good to me." He pulled the platter out and sliced a hunk of meat off." Amazingly enough the meat was pink and juicy and delicious looking in the middle. Raoul bit into it and made enjoyment noises. "Well, it was wonderful chatting with you Chris. I'll have to stop by sometime when I'm not frightfully wounded." He held his hand up in front of his eyes. "You sure worked a miracle with the pulque or whatever you splashed all over me. I haven't had a tan like this since I was a boy."

Christine got up and rubbed her arms slowly. "Raoul, Philippe is gone. You must chose how to live your own life now. You can speak Spanish if you want."

Raoul chewed around a bite of ham for a while. Then he smiled at her and bowed, "Gracias Senora, but I don't think that many Frenchmen would understand me. Now which way out of this carnival house? Don't want to get back in that hall of mirrors by accident. "

Christine showed him to the front door. "Go ahead and take the boat to the far side. Erik will tow it back with him when he comes home."

Raoul nodded, "Thanks."

Christine frowned and braced herself. "Raoul?"

She almost lost her nerve when he turned around. "Hmm?"

"Raoul, why did you come to see Erik?"

Raoul wrinkled up his nose, "I don't remember. But it was good that I came. I haven't talked with you in far too long."

Christine waved goodbye and shut the door before he could say anything further. The old Raoul was safe, young and idealistic, ridiculously handsome and easy to resist. This Raoul was becoming too dangerous. Too dangerous.

A/N: Wow it's actually up on time! This is about the first time I've posted on time since I joined. Celebrate with me! Review!


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